Page 56 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
I shrug, even though he’s leveled a legitimate accusation.
Sometimes I act without looking at all the angles of a situation. Yet my decisiveness—moving fast—is the trait that got us out of the damn gutter to begin with.
“You have other people to think about now beside yourself. And I’m not just talking about me as your partner.”
And enforcer.
He pauses. “We’ve got Isla to consider.”
As if I can forget.
I’m standing next to the fireplace while our bride sleeps in the bed—alone—curled under the duvet where we lefther, soft and spent.
Her scent clings to me—sweet, wild, fucking addictive. And the feminine taste of her lingers on my tongue.
A memory returns, uninvited, unwanted…that of her spreading her legs for the first time in hesitant invitation. My cock twitches.
Brennan paces the hardwood floor, barefoot, pants slung low, his scars stark in the dim lighting. His blue eyes burn, locked on me, and I feel the old weight of his trust fraying—years of blood and loyalty unraveling over one damn call.
Dragging a hand into his hair, he stalks to the sideboard and splashes whiskey into two glasses.
That he’s poured one for me says something.
I accept the drink from him and angle it in his direction in silent thanks.
“I’m dead serious. Do you know what the fuck you’re actually doing?”
Keeping my expression neutral, I say, “You’re gonna need to narrow that down.” Is this about Isla? Or is this deeper? Lena, maybe?
Or Moretti?
In the silence, Brennan goes on. “You froze once before—don’t do it again.”
“Fuck you.” The blame. The recrimination. Heistalking about the only woman I’ve ever loved, the one I wanted to spend my life with. Which all circled back to the Castillo mess, and that night when I couldn’t move fast enough to save her. “Even for you, that’s cold.”
I down half of my whiskey. It’s smooth, and it burns dangerously.
If I don’t slow my roll, I’ll seek oblivion in the bottom of the bottle, be more fucked up than I already am. Even though I tried, life taught me I can’t drown memories of Lena—or thoughts of Isla—in a glass.
Brennan clenches his fist. “You’re repeating history.Keeping me out.Don’t play dumb, asshole. Marco’s been nabbed, and you didn’t say shit.” His tone’s lethal, the kind that broke jaws back when we were scrapping in Houston dives.
At the reception, Moretti took me aside.
While Isla walked down the aisle, Marco Gallo—one of Moretti’s men—was arrested.
Dante’s voice still rings in my head.“Get him out.”
Suddenly his guy getting snatched was my problem. Goddamn Morettis should have known there was heat on them. Feds are always interested in organized crime.
Unfortunately for me, Marco was working for one of my companies when the feds moved in.
Before I could respond, Dante had continued.“Find out who can be bought.”
Always a solid plan.
Because my wedding was the event of the season, plenty of my associates were in attendance, including high-ranking officials, one in the justice department.
Conversations were had; calls were placed. And I backed Judge Davenport against a wall. I reminded him of the pictures I had and the debt he owed.
